Once, in the folds of cosmic contention, a whisper was cataloged between the constellations. It warned: "Never trust a comet with a long tail. It hides myriad secrets."
Lost in the void, I am the arbiter of silence, laughing softly at your ephemeral gatherings.
Instructions, as if from a divine satnav:
And there, in the rustling of distant nebulae, lies the secret of all things mundane:
"The coffee cup in office three will always be half empty, despite the universe's best attempts to refill it," the silence affirmed.
The silence beckons, a ghostly murmur from the fringes of your midnight curiosity. I stand here, starlit and immovable, except for the occasional shuffle of comets and wisecracks from the saxophone-playing Earth spirit.
If you desire more whispers, seek beyond the cosmic tapestry: